Lust
by ContemplatingUnderland
Summary: Arty is bored with the "wholesome" life and decides to have some fun. Rated M for crossdressing, alcohol, adult themes, etc. NOT Artemis x Minerva! NOT!


**Hey! Yeah, if you have failed to read my warnings, I suppose I must repeat myself. At the risk of sounding redundant:**

**WARNING! This fic is the child of my bored and twisted mind. I already know that Artemis wouldn't **_**really **_**end up in this situation, but whatever—that's what fanfiction is for. ;) Read on at your own risk, darling. **

**Disclaimer: No, I don't own Artemis Fowl or any of the plot points/characters. **

Ring...Ring...Ring..._Click! _

"Mm. Hello?" He knew his voice sounded jaded. He cleared his throat—a taste of alcohol sat on his tongue like a toad, causing him to gag. The caller had him holding the slim cell phone to his ear, and their silence grated his sluggish nerves. "_Hello?_"

"Master Artemis?" He resisted the urge to disconnect the call then and there. Oh, how he despised being woken up, especially so early in the morning. Scowling, he sat up in the wide, overstuffed bed with alien sheets of fluid satin and a duvet in the gaudiest shade of pink he'd ever had the misfortune to lay eyes upon.

"No, you have the wrong number," he drawled.

The hazy room came into focus, with its Louis Vuitton wallpaper, and embroidered rug in the shape of a huge, silken-furred heart. A name was stitched in golden thread in the center, but he couldn't read it past the mesh of snoring girls piled on top of it. The trail of ladies, all in varying degrees of undress, continued over the foot of the bed, across his covered feet, and ended with a familiar blonde in his azure, Armani Exchange, shadow-striped shirt, splayed across his lap.

"Master Artemis, where are you?" Routine-hardened concern laced the fledgling manservant's faint Ukrainian accent, agitating his hangover. The Fowls took it upon themselves to force an aged Butler into retirement, giving him enough of a pension to last three lifetimes. However, the tedium of life without crime was simply too much to bear for Artemis Jr., and from thus originated his more recent—ahem—deviancies. Hence, his current situation of being stranded in a room of half-naked women, with the tinge of alcohol on his breath and the heaviness on his face that can only be identified as makeup.

"Hell if I know. I'm certain you're competent enough to figure that bit out on your own."

"I've begun tracking your cell signal. It seems you are in New York City, in the States. Do you recognize anyone, perhaps the young miss you left with two days ago?" A hint of disapproval—or jealousy?—invaded his employee's voice, but he chose to ignore it.

The young genius took a look at the phone, and grimaced at its glossy, hot pink cover. He couldn't quite recall how it came into his possession, but the image of dangling it before a giggling redhead's face came to mind. Leaning over the bed, Artemis spotted said redhead lying underneath the bedskirt, her mahogany curls bleeding out against the shining, Brazilian-wood floor. An overturned glass of wine sat next to her bronze hand, sparkling lip gloss smeared around the rim.

"Is this friend of mine, by any chance, partial to 1950s white wine in goose-stem glasses?"

"How am I to know that?"

"Excuse me?" He didn't appreciate the bodyguard's insolence.

"My apologies, sir. I spoke out of my place."

"I should say so. Now, did this woman have red hair?"

"She dyed it. I look for girl with purple hair. I'm sure that'd be easier to find than redhead."

_Is that a yes or a no? _He could almost see the caller's blank expression, and his eyebrow twitched in irritation.

"You don't seem to know much about this friend when it would help the most. I might as well remain missing if you're the one in charge of locating me.

"In case your were wondering, I'm wholly healthy, and am, in no sense of the phrase, in a good humor. Now, I'm trying to assist you in your obvious distress over my absence, and your bumbling attempts at wit are unnecessary."

Swinging out of bed, his hangover reasserted itself, grinding against the back of his eyes whenever he moved too quickly. His flawless grace, though present, was marred by the vestigial affects of the heavy drinking from the night before, throwing him off balance. He tried to stand tall, but found his feet to be strapped in a pair of Christian Louboutin, red-bottomed shoes with stiletto heels. The contrast of the black lace on his moon-pale skin piqued his interest.

_Hmm, I believe I'll keep these, _he smirked inwardly.

Minerva grumbled in protest at his noise-making, before falling into a deeper sleep, curls tumbling into the crook of her elbow. He smirked upon noticing her nose scrunch up when he moved again, and smiled when she started to paw at his knee like a kitten. She'd barely turned twenty-one when she began dragging him in darker and wilder crevices of the affluent underworld. Somehow, he knew she inherited that craving for the highly ill-advised from his own self. _I swear you've had more fun with expressing my sexuality than I have, missy. _

"Mr. Malukoff, I fairly certain that I instructed you to keep Miss Paradizo in Fowl Manor until the end of her stay."

"Sir, my apologies, but I only try to do my job—"

"No need to shout, you impertinent twit! I can hear you just fine. In any case, if you can't handle retaining either of us, I suggest you _quit_ so I can find myself someone with more intelligence than a half-melted pudding pop stuck to a burlap sack. Can you understand what I'm saying, Mr. Malukoff?"

Silence reigned, and Artemis' ire soon cooled to morbid curiosity. Maybe he'd wounded the man's ego more than he anticipated. The hangover _did _cloud his judgment quite a bit, and insensitive bluntness was an affliction that had plagued him since his boyhood years.

"Sir?"

He sighed in quiet relief at the sound of Viktor's stony determination, one of the reasons his fondness for the man still grew. "Yes, Mr. Malukoff?"

"I've located the penthouse you stay in. I come to pick you up myself."

Artemis smirked, tucking a raven tress behind his ear. "I suppose you expect praise." He couldn't suppress the flirtatious lilt at the end of his sentence, but it seemed to fly right over his bodyguard's head.

"No, Master Artemis. Your safety is top priority. Right now, danger is tired of stalking you. He is taking nap, and I'll come to you in mean time."

_How cliche_, the Fowl heir tutted to himself. He could see the man in his mind, holding the car door open in a wide-legged stance that emphasized his bulk: Viktor's sharp nose sitting between his light grey eyes, his flaxen hair in a buzz cut, and his broad shoulders all set and straightened to take the brunt of Artemis' verbal assaults; his large hands would be clenching the handle in those worn leather gloves Butler presented to him on the man's first day on the job; his wide feet were probably stuffed in shining loafers, when combat boots would prove to be a better fit. Somehow, the image of such a man waiting for him sent the sharp-tongued heir in a darker direction more suited for his surroundings.

"I wonder if Father felt the same way about Domovoi's uncle before he met Mother?" The Irish genius mused to himself.

"Excuse me, sir?"

Artemis blushed a matching shade of pink as the walls around him, remembering that Viktor was still on the phone. "I said: 'Aren't you supposed to be rushing to save me from my captors, Mr. Malukoff?' No time for idle chit chat, now is it?"

The twenty-seven year old could've sworn he heard a closed-lipped chuckling drifting from the tiny mobile. "No, sir, of course not."


End file.
